Tag Archives: Charles Bukkake

Hats off to Hofstra University once again for establishing an environment just suitable enough to get those litigious ass pancakes off their case! As I’m sure you all know, diversity is an issue. A serious issue. One that you should change the tone of your voice for. In an effort to become a truly all-inclusive campus, Hofstra has proudly unveiled bathrooms available for any and all genders and sexualities on the fourteenth floors of Estabrook, Constitution, Enterprise, and Vander Poel Halls. Now we all know the real-estate industry here at Hofstra has really been booming ever since the eviction of those job-stealing leeches over in Estabrook. What we can expect from these events is for Hofstra to step it up and create an environment that says, “Gay? Fine by Hofstra!”

“The truth is, you can be as gay as you want in these bathrooms,” says university spokesperson for diversity, Gerald. “You can waltz right in there with two guys; two girls; one guy and one girl; three girls and one guy; two guys and three girls; four girls and one guy; two girls and one guy; an F. Scott Fitzgerald mannequin and three guys; five guys, burgers, and fries, the possibilities are truly endless. I mean hey, it’s legal now! #Lovewins.”

“These bathrooms are clearly marked for use of any and every gender by not being marked at all. This dates back to when the towers were built in 1967—issues of this sort were surely, certainly on the universities mind. Talk about being ahead of the curve! The intentional ambiguity of the bathrooms makes it basically sort of just okay enough that should anyone of any gender use them while at the same time allowing us to just shrug when someone else complains that their religious freedom is being trampled on,” says pesky schemer Ralph Aynolbeid. “Now leave us alone, already.”

However, other buildings such as Bill of Rights and Alliance Halls still remain stubborn and are willing to go to such extremes as purposely eliminating a fourteenth floor altogether so that there is no room for multi-gender bathrooms. It’s a shame that these buildings are still behind in the pursuit of PC but maybe one day those grouchy old concrete beasts will accept the changing of times, as predicted by Bob Dylan in the 2009 hit film, Watchmen. Either way, four entire buildings is plenty enough progress for one billing cycle. Classic, liberal New York can finally stop badgering the good people of Hofstra.

Now, a common question and concern upon reading this article may be, “All genders? I thought there were only two!” Contrary to popular belief, there are actually more than two genders available for human use and everyone with any gender can use the specially designed all-inclusive fourteenth floor bathrooms at Hofstra University. I mean like, no one is going to stop you. Seriously. Male? Yes! Female? Yeah. Gender fluid? Yep. Intersex. Demi-Boy? I don’t see why not! Demi-girl? Are you even listening? Demi-God? I mean, the bathrooms in Valhalla are surely nicer, but what the hell? Poor? No. Try Popeyes.

Still, some people were unsatisfied and unconvinced as they begged the question that sure, all genders are accepted, but what about all sexualities? Were people of the bisexual persuasion allowed to use these so-called all-inclusive bathrooms?

The only answer they received was “Yeah, gay people can use the bathrooms too. We said that already.”

It’s been a minute since Hofstra Vs. Zombies has made the news for another tragic incident. An innocent bystander getting shot between the eyes, forcing them to drop their books, papers, hookah pen, and consequently their Hofstra pride, is nothing new. “Fucking shit-balls!” exclaims one Hofstra student we reached for comment, rubbing the Velcro out of his eye, “Seein’ as those fellas must be nice guys, they should kindly crawl back into the friendzone they so unjustly belong in.” However, this time the stakes have been raised—and I’m not talking about your daddy’s rib-eye. Earlier today, a senior citizen was shot and killed making their merry way over to the best pizza on the island.

“Bitch was so old, she may as well have been the walking dead,” explains the charismatic, dangerous and probable virgin Malcom “xxx_ShadowDragon_xxx” (as he insisted we called him). “I just bought this beauty at a K-Mart in East Garden City. There was no test or background check, well, aside from the Q-T cashier checking me out!” Yes, he indeed wrote out “Q” and “T” in the air with his damp finger.

Is it really this simple to purchase a “beauty” of that magnitude with little to no restrictions by our federal government? Does East Garden City even have a local government? We consulted local gun expert Mike Hunt and even local-er expert Xavier “No Chill” Johnson.

“Listen. The fact of the…the fact of the…the matter at hand here is the fact that liberals can eat my dick. I repeat, liberals can eat my dick. What was I talking about? Right—as I was saying, my ass is so clenched that I lost all feeling in my legs about thirty seconds ago. Please help me.” Mr. Hunt does drive a compelling point. Nerf guns don’t kill people, but dying of secondhand embarrassment at the fact that you manually carved a radioactive symbol onto a forty dollar nerf gun does. I bet that “instrument” isn’t even fucking radioactive. Fuck.

Mr. Johnson, however, also provides some pretty decent feedback. “So are you buying any weed or what?”

My homie, “No Chill” states the obvious in implying that guns need to be regulated when there is, technically speaking, a school shooting every time this organization meets. Uh-oh…what’s this? Breaking news? It appears we are having more action on the scene than a hot pocket in a lean cuisine. A devilishly dapper debonair appears before us, cheeto dust swirling in a tornado of desperation and class. Donning an emerald cloak, shrouding his tragic past, he speaks. “Good day to thee, my fine gentlesirs.” With this mere phrase our news team is bewitched as our undergarments smash the floor with unquenchable lust.

“You see, ‘tis not the size of the gun that is important; rather, it is the way in which you pwn noobs-er..peasants with said gun. Or so my girlfriend—Girlfriends! tell me.” Pulling me in by my tie, he whispers, “But it sure does help if you have a Desert Falcon Blaster 69xxx laser-mounted, special edition, Mountain Dew fueled-euphoria enducing, triple-action meat beater-killswitch engage-cockgrinder with auto-erotic asphyxia controls and a dignity depletion rate of 923 dates per picosecond.” Noticing Edith the—now terrified—intern, he tipped his authentic Indiana Jones replica headpiece and uttered “Farewell, fair maiden. Until we meet in the land of sunlight” and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of Axe Bodywash and starch.

We don’t mean to harass people who are happy doing what they do. As a matter of fact, more power to them for being less cynical and douchey than our team of accountants (who are also probably armed). All we are saying is that—shit! You have an office! An OFFICE. You guys always seem so happy! It’s disgusting. Do you guys even know how to roll your eyes? It is disgusting. We are not bitter. Please give us our office back.

This is the worst generation ever. Kids these days are the most ungrateful, disrespectful “swag” ridden little whippersnappers an old, wise veteran such as myself has the utmost displeasure of meeting. Time after time I try getting along with my grandchildren but all it seems they’re interested in these days are their stupid cellular devices. Vines? You know what kind of vines I had to deal with when I was your age? The vines in ‘Nam that, if you weren’t paying attention close enough, would pull you in and lock you away in the depths of the jungle for all eternity. Snapchat? Hell when I was a teenager we used to communicate using two tin cans and a string, or just plain old morse code. My point is, there is simply no mercy when it comes to kids these days and they’re all selfish. I tried politely asking them for social security money but they declined, scratching their heads, probably confused at what social security even is. So me and all my buddies decided to take it without their knowledge. Kind of reminded me when Johnny and I tried to flank this VC troop. Watching your best friend fade into a pink mist upon stepping on a landmine is a growing experience no “teen” will ever get to have these days. Thankfully there’s Minesweeper, which is close enough.

God I miss Johnny so much.

Anyway, deep down inside, I’m a nice guy. As I said before, I try getting along with my grandchildren but last time they visited, they kept going on and on about this “Sharkeesha” business. Well, after dedicating months upon months of research to this topic, I finally procured enough intel on the business and had myself a hearty chuckle, at least, as much a chuckle as having a single lung can allow. When they visited again this year I did a little hop, pivoted my mostly fractured hips towards them, extended my fingers (registered as weapons, of course) in the shape of two pistols, smiled, winked, and said “Hey Sharkeesha!” They were not amused. The younger one, Jared, looked down to the shoes on my feet and looked back up to his sister. The sinister smiles that grew upon their faces could only be rivaled of my drill sergeant when he found out I had irregular bowel movements at age eighteen. The little shit said, “Hey grandpa, I got one question for you.” He took a considerable dramatic pause before pointing to my vintage moccasins and yelled “WHAT ARE THOOOSE?!” before collapsing into a highly unnecessary cackle. How dare he insult my choice in fashion? I’m hip! I’m groovy! I’m down with the times, man! Sure I may not fully understand why people are so fixated on dead asses or why the “b” in “babe” was dropped. But I do know what it means to “ride the baloney poney” and I do, in fact, know what a trouser snake is, and damn well at that! So really, who wins here? Fuck you two clowns, I can at least vote for people with policies that benefit only me while you’re stuck surfing The Facebook and jacking off with the Nintendo Power Glove ™. So, squad, I’ll be on my finna way. One hundred, one hundred, laughing while crying yellow face, laughing while crying yellow face, asshole symbol.

By Charles BukkakeIt was an especially cold and bitter night when my wife left me. She had been banging my boss for a couple months and when I caught them on that cute futon I bought from Ikea just a week or two ago, I was fired the next day because “It makes the whole work experience awkward”. Traveling by foot back to my apartment, because that’s what recently unemployed divorcees do, I was mugged by a much larger gentleman whose skin color I shall not specify so as to avoid being called racist by anybody. Anyway, I got my umbrella jacked for whatever fucking reason and it started to rain almost immediately after. By the time I finally got to my apartment, I found a note on the door from my wife telling me to pack my things and leave. Yes I probably could have sued my boss or legally done something about this but the truth is, my wife is right about a lot of things, including the fact that I don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Anyway, I managed to work up quite the appetite so I decided that I might as well order some pizza from Domino’s, because product placement. I opened my computer and, much to my surprise, I found an odd picture, some kind of twisted abstraction, I think they call it “meme” but it was detailing a certain kind of pizza, or rather, a pizza that didn’t have any pizza at all. Indeed there was no pizza, just beef. I guess my daughter was using my computer again but before I could cross my fingers and awkwardly ask a series of vague questions to her, in hopes that she didn’t find my bookmarked babysitter porn, I thought hey fuck it, why not? This seems like some crazy diet thing and I could shed a few pounds. I was well on my way to ordering what, I did not know at the time was called, none pizza with left beef. No cheese, no sauce, no pepperoni, no Chad’s saus-sorry…Italian sausage, no mushrooms, no ham, no bacon, no anchovies, but beef. Oh yes. A normal amount of beef specifically on the left side of the pizza. It sounded a little weird sure but whatever helped me bond with my daughter aside from the ever-so-often “You don’t understand me”’s and “It’s not a phase, dad, why do you hate me?”’s and “Ugh you’re so embarrassing”’s every time I mention erections around her boyfriend. Within fifteen minutes the pizza came and with each bite I fell more and more into despair until I ultimately started to cry. My life couldn’t even give me the small pleasure of enjoying some fucking none pizza…with left beef. The dough was especially raw in some places and burnt in others and the oblong chunks of beef tasted as salty as the tears streaming down my face thinking about Karen and I’s honeymoon. My daughter walked in on me, asked if I was crying and I only responded “No sweetie, it’s just really spicy.” She shook her head in contempt, as they all do, and while she was leaving she turned her head slightly, her back still facing me, she said “Mom called. She heard you got fired and just wants you to know she’s not mad, just disappointed.”